


Breaking, Entering

by blushamatic



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Kissing, Pre-Canon, ttazce2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:04:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blushamatic/pseuds/blushamatic
Summary: Hurley braces herself for another cold and gloomy evening at home. Her surprise visitor has a better plan.





	Breaking, Entering

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IsolatedPhenomenon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsolatedPhenomenon/gifts).



> Happy Candlenights, IsolatedPhenomenon! Here's the first of your two exchange gifts: some cozy Hurley/Sloane.

Did the militia office _have_ to be so gloomy? Sure, the string lights, the cut-out paper snowflakes, the miniature Candlenights bush next to the water cooler all softened the dreariness. Sort of. But with no one else around, Hurley found it all a little depressing. 

She pulled on her gloves, shuffled past the rows of empty desks, tossed the empty carton of nog into the trash on her way out the door—she and the rest of the force had polished it off before hustling home at six on-the-dot. Well, _they’d_ hustled home. Hurley didn’t have anywhere to be. She pulled the hood of her wool coat over her head and stepped into the slushy street with no particular urgency—and straight into a grey puddle of half-melted snow.

_Ugh_.

The worst thing about having a secretive, off-the-grid criminal for a lover was that she was very hard to get a hold of. Now, for instance, would be a nice time to know where and how to reach her. It was exciting, never knowing. Tonight, though—she should’ve asked Sloane for some company. She hadn’t thought to. Hurley still wasn’t used to picking up a stone when she needed someone. She wasn’t used to having someone to need.

Gods, she didn’t have any food at home, did she. Just plain noodles and a half-finished bag of jerky. Fine, whatever; she didn’t need much. She should fix that busted window before bed, though. It was supposed to snow again tonight. Great.

The journey to her front stoop took an eternity. She trundled up to the third floor, sighing for no one in particular when she reached the landing. She had her key halfway into the lock when she noticed—there was light peeking out from under her front door.

Hurley’s mind raced through three possible scenarios: One, she'd left a light on. Two, her already lousy day was about to be capped off by a burglary. Or, three . . . It could be . . . _What if it’s . . ._

Her stomach did a hopeful little somersault.

She pressed her key into the lock, turned, and crept inside.

The first thing to hit was the aroma of rosemary and butter. Then it was the warmth, washing over her the instant she crossed the threshold. Then it was the low, melodic hum coming from the direction of her kitchen—

“Look who’s home,” a voice called out. Hurley rounded the corner, and there was Sloane, hovering over her kitchen table, setting two forks beside two plates on the tiny kitchen table. Her oversized grey sweater had slipped from one shoulder. She appeared to have pilfered Hurley’s largest pair of socks. Between the two place settings, a tiny stump of a candle flickered cheerily inside a jar.

“How—”

Sloane waved off her question with a long, elegant hand as she peered into the oven. “I got in through your window. Then I fixed it. That gap at the top was making it hella drafty in here. It’s supposed to snow tonight, y’know. By the way you're down with roast chicken and sprouts, aren't you?”

Hurley’s mind scrambled for words to tell Sloane how very, very down she was with all of it, with everything. She failed to find them. So she closed the distance between them, took Sloane’s face in her hands, and kissed her.

When Hurley pulled back, the smirk usually cemented to Sloane’s face was gone. She’d softened now, lips parted and spit-slick, eyes closed.

Hurley rested her forehead against Sloane’s chin. “I didn't think I'd see you tonight.”

“You didn't ask,” Sloane murmured. “You could’ve asked.”

There was a question buried there, Hurley knew, too tender for Sloane to ask aloud: _Why didn’t you try to reach me?_

Hurley wrapped an arm around Sloane’s waist, pressed a palm to her lower back. “I'm not used to . . . I'm bad at this. Making plans. Having . . . people in my life.”

“People?” Sloane pulled away, incredulous but smiling.

Hurley gulped. “Yeah. Y’know. A person. A—a girlfriend.”

Sloane’s eyes widened. She flipped a long, black strand of hair over her shoulder in what was probably supposed to be a haughty gesture but Hurley recognized immediately as bashfulness. “I'll take ‘girlfriend,’” she laughed, voice the slightest bit higher than usual.

Hurley peered up at her. “Yeah?”

The smirk was back, warm and bewitching and gods, did that smile do things to Hurley’s insides. “Yeah,” Sloane repeated. And then, “Now take all that wet stuff off. Dinner’s ready and it’s delicious and I’m ready to gloat.”

Dinner _was_ delicious. It warmed Hurley’s core and drained the tension she hadn't realized she'd been harboring in her shoulders and neck. She couldn’t resist seeking out Sloane’s socked foot under the table, nudging at it with her toe, watching the blush bloom at the faintly pointed tips of Sloane’s ears. It all made Hurley’s heart ache, in the nice way—the best way.

Sloane tried to take charge of the fire-building post-dinner but was swiftly denied (“You've caused enough trouble tonight”), so she draped her long limbs across the couch and propped her feet up on the armrest to watch Hurley stoke the kindling. It was a pretty picture, Sloane sprawled across the cushions like she lived there. Sloane’s eyes followed her as Hurley reached for new sticks, poking and prodding the fire to life. Hurley didn’t usually like being watched. She liked this. Gods, she hadn’t stopped smiling since dinner, had she?

“So,” Sloane ventured once the fire got to roaring, “You gonna issue me a citation for breaking and entering?”

Hurley sunk into the couch beside her. “Nah, I think I’ll let you off with a warning.” She kept her face stoic as she added, “And, uh . . . this.”

Her hand was in her pocket before she could second-guess herself, before her brain could catch up to her heart and remind her of all the _what ifs_ and the _shouldn’ts_.

Sloane looked at the tiny object Hurley had placed in her palm.

“This is _your_ key.”

Hurley’s neck felt impossibly hot. “I have another one, silly. That one’s yours,” and then, “If you want it.” Sloane just stared. Lips parted, brow furrowed. “So you can come by whenever. No more window stunts, how ‘bout that?”

Silence. A log popped in the fireplace. A nasty gust of wind howled outside. Hurley’s tongue sat heavy in her throat. She’d miscalculated, hadn't she. This was all too much too soon. Sloane, who always had a snappy reply for everything, an exit line for every occasion, was wordless.

And then she curled her fingers around the key, shut her eyes on an exhale, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to Hurley’s forehead. Her lips lingered on the skin there. Hurley shivered from the root of her spine to the crown of her head.

Oh, boy. She'd really done it now, hadn't she?

But she could think about all that in the morning. Now, there was a fire roaring, and a person tucked into her side, and a mended window to keep the warmth in.

 


End file.
